


Better Ways to Kill Our Time

by always_a_birthday_girl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Episode: s14e11 Damaged Goods, Long Distance Relationship, M/M, Relationship Status: It's Complicated, Sort Of, late to the party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 01:24:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17612792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/always_a_birthday_girl/pseuds/always_a_birthday_girl
Summary: It was unsettling, that the only way they could be totally honest with each other was while separated by two hundred miles of land and a couple thousand leagues of seawater.But dysfunction be damned, Cas was taking advantage of it.





	Better Ways to Kill Our Time

Jack had been quiet since Sam started to speak, in those quiet, hesitant words he used when he was upset, and couldn't properly explain a situation, but was trying his best anyway. Cas didn't know why it was always Sam who delivered bad news calmly, while Dean had to drunk and pushed around and pissed off before the truth came out. By all rights, it should be the other way around.

Because Dean took his feelings and hammered them up in a box rather like the one he was planning on riding to the bottom of the ocean, and that meant he was in a better position to stay poised in times of crisis because he was used to suppressing his emotions anyway.

But people, Cas had learned, reacted differently to stress and trauma than outsiders might guess. The normally placid turned vicious. The once-loving became violent. And the tough ones, the ones that swaggered around with leather jackets and beer bottles and burgers and muscle cars?

They hid in their rooms and refused to come out until their baby brothers had done the dirty work.

And Jack, who always had a thousand questions about everything, hadn't said a word since Sam began, as if sensing that this big, terrible thing was worse than any of the other big, terrible things Sam had sat down to tell them. Cas would have expected the nephilim to get upset, to yell and overturn furniture and make the kind of wild declarations that only the very young or very hopeful could make. The kind of stupid promises Dean had once made; _we'll stop Lucifer, the Apocalypse can suck my ass, we'll save Sammy, nobody's staying in Purgatory forever, you keep the faith and so will I. So will I, Cas._

His humans had aged while Cas was busy playing God, and then martyr, and then nursemaid and father. Sam had run himself ragged trying to earn sainthood and Dean had just. Dean had, somehow, gotten to the point where faith wasn't a factor any longer, where he locked himself in his room and wouldn't come out for anything, like he was preparing himself for the day when he'd be locked in that box and never come out.

He wouldn't die. That would be the kicker, wouldn't it? Finally, a Winchester finding a way to sacrifice themselves that didn't include death. Trust Dean to be the one to hit on eternal torment, like he hadn't already been through enough of that. Trapped with Michael until the end of time, which Cas happened to know was—thanks to them—still a long damn way off.

Jack's hands were in tight fists, his eyes glued to Sam's face even though Sam had stopped talking now. The three of them sat at the bunker's control table in silence, and yet there was still so much being said.

Jack's attention on Sam; he was seeking comfort, waiting for Sam to come up with a genius solution because that was what Sam did. Pulled out a dusty spellbook or ancient charm and saved the day with his brainpower alone. And even when Sam didn't have the answers, he was there to pat backs and hand out hugs and reassure everyone, Cas included, with those ridiculous puppy dog eyes. Sam held a special place in Jack's heart, and turning to him was how Jack reacted to trauma.

Sam shook his head, a movement so small Cas would have missed it if he hadn't been looking at the hunter, too. Jack's face fell, but his gaze never wavered.

It was almost enough to make Cas feel left out, but it wasn't like he didn't have his own emotions to work through. To everyone's surprise, his included,  _he_ was the one to stand abruptly, shoving the chair back with enough force to knock it down. He didn't make any declarations, but he knew his message was clear. Funny, how none of them really needed words these days.

Sam stretched a hand out as Cas stomped by, but he wasn't letting the  _child_ stop him. He heard the  _thump_ of Sam's hand landing on the table, and didn't doubt there were a lot more silent exchanges after he was gone.

_Should I go after him?_ Sam was probably asking, because even though he'd known Cas longer Jack still had a better handle on his heart.

_Probably not,_ Jack would advise, if he really did know shit about Castiel.

And Cas's son did. He knew so much, it was frightening. 

Cas stormed down the hall, counting room numbers like he couldn't find Dean's while dizzy and blindfolded and possibly drunk. Dean made it easy; he stayed close to the main quarters. 

Cas banged on 11. Predictably, there was no reply.

"Dean."

Radio silence.

"Dean, I know you're in there, and I assure you. My patience will win against yours." He'd stand here all night if he had to. He'd stand here all week. They both knew it. And Dean's need to eat would preside over his need to avoid this particular conflict. It was just a matter of time.

The door opened. Fractionally. There was no Dean in the sliver of space that Cas could see, but from somewhere inside Dean said, "Don't make a scene in the hall."

_Not in front of the kids_ .

Cas pushed the door the rest of the way open. His mind was capable of multitasking on a cosmic level, but he still couldn't fathom how this had happened under his very nose. He'd always suspected Dean was, slightly, in some regards, more  _stupid_ than the average hunter, but honestly.

Honestly.

How had Cas let this happen?

Dean was sitting on his narrow, neatly made bed, looking better than he had in days and far better than he ever had a right to. He was clean-shaven, in a fresh flannel shirt and almost-washed jeans. 

All Cas could do was sigh. 

Dean rubbed his face. "Sam told you."

" _You_ should have told me." 

Dean glanced up at him. "C'mon, man. You know why I couldn't."

_No,_ the sharp retort was on Cas's tongue,  _I don't. Because you won't_ say  _it._ "You cannot honestly do this, Dean."

"Give me one reason why not." Petulant. Like a child. Some things never changed.

"You're claustrophobic."

Dean gave that one pause, as if he really hadn't thought of that. Then he shrugged. "Coupla years, the archangel will have scrambled my brain anyway."

"I happen to be partial to your brain," Cas said sharply.

He happened to be partial to all of Dean, and wanted him home where he belonged, not bobbing along the ocean floor like the world's smallest shipwreck. He didn't have qualms about making that clear. 

"There has to be another way. The archangel cuffs."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "You mean the ones Michael broke?"

Cas mimicked his sardonic tone. "You mean the ones I could fix?"

"Man, we aren't even sure those things really worked on him."

"And there's no guarantee the box will work, either."

"Billie said it would."

Cas eyed him. "And Billie's always been completely on our side. Dean, if this doesn't work, you won't drown. You'll be at the bottom of the ocean—you'll be  _crushed._ "

Dean threw his hands up. "What would you have me do? Sit around here and wait for Michael to take over again?"

"Yes," Cas spit. "Because we'll find a solution. We always do."

"Cas--" Dean lingered on his name, and that hurt, "-- _this_ is our solution. This is how I fix what I did."

"Dean."

"What? You can say you weren't thinking it, but you're the only one who wasn't." Dean's gaze softened. "And trust me, man, I appreciate that. But Michael's only here because I threw the door open and let him in."

Cas's instinct was to argue, haggle about fault and blame the way they always did, but Dean was  _looking_ at him, all affectionate and pleading at the same time and Cas just. Cas just shut right up.

Dean jerked his chin toward the mattress. "Sit with me? Just for a minute or two?"

Cas sank down next to Dean. It was hard to wrap his head around it, in that moment, that Dean was going away. Surely they'd work something else out. Surely it wasn't real, same as the other times. There'd be a midnight hour escape, last-minute loophole,  _something_ . The denial worked furiously in Cas, and he let it rework the resigned tone of Sam's voice to something more negotiable, and it masked the hopeless, haunted look in Dean's eyes that so clearly begged for rest.

This was bad, certainly, but they'd faced bad. Dean wouldn't go. He couldn't.

 

x

 

In the end, Dean went.

Cas raged, and Sam raged, and Jack kicked up a storm of fire and fury that made all his other temper tantrums look like tiny squalls in comparison, and Dean railed just as hard back at all of them, and when it was over and the dust had settled, the facts still remained.

One morning, while Cas was sulking his way through a pot of coffee and Sam was reading angel lore because he was always reading angel lore these days, looking for an out, Dean put down his fork and said, "I taste blood."

He was eating bacon. Sam tasted it, Jack tasted, and even Cas tasted it, confirming it was bacon down to a molecular level. Dean nibbled at his toast, sipped some orange juice, and then sampled his way through their entire pantry before concluding that everything he ate tasted like blood.

"He's messing with you." Sam's face went pale. "It's Michael. He's screwing with your brain."

The next day, the nosebleeds started. Day after that, no bleeding, but no sense of smell, either. When Dean fell down while making the short walk between the sink and the table in the kitchen, Cas all but strapped him to his bed and that was really the end of it. If Michael was loose enough to start controlling Dean's body like a puppet, it was only a matter of time—days, at this rate—before he could shove Dean's mind out of the way. 

Dean went.

Dean went, and most of that day was numb in Cas's mind. The others did their goodbyes, but Cas just lurked on the fringes, watching Dean and trying to soak up every last memory he could. He was dreading the moment when Dean would turn to him and make it final, give his obviously recited last words—always some iteration of  _take care of Sammy, and take care of Mom, and just . . . take care._

But Dean never did. He sat with Jack and Sam over breakfast, tried to have one last beer (spat it in the sink, " _Still lousy with blood_ ."), hugged Mary. Let the other hunters squeeze the death out of him, or try. He was fairly upbeat for a man about to walk the hunter version of the Green Mile, but then, he always was. 

He discussed in calm, clear tones what was going to happen after they sealed him into the angel box. He'd made arrangements with Donna, Jody, Garth. They would be responsible for moving him from point A to point Bottom of the Ocean, along with half the hunter network from here to the nearest coast. All he had to do was tape himself up like a Christmas gift for them.

Sam wanted to go and seal up the box and be the last thing Dean ever saw, and Dean stood at the bottom of the bunker stairs, looked his brother in the eye, and said, "No, Sammy. Not this time."

His voice was so firm and quiet, there was no further debate.

So it was Cas who suffered through the long, quiet car ride up to Donna's cabin. Dean wasn't steady enough to drive, not to Cas's satisfaction, and he didn't put up a fight at being demoted to shotgun. It was that, more than anything, that hinted at him being more upset than he was letting on.

"You have to promise." They'd been driving for an hour when Dean finally spoke. He kept his head turned to look out the window, but every now and then his eyes skittered sideways, checking Cas out, making sure he was still there. It was a silly habit, from years before when Cas used to jump in and out of Dean's presence like a pool he wasn't sure he wanted to enter.

"Promise what?" Cas's mind-reading skills were severely limited; he wished Dean would remember that.

"That you won't change your mind." Dean was religiously focused on the scenery, but his hand twitched on his thigh. "Don't do something stupid like go back for me."

Cas hesitated too long, and Dean snapped, " _Cas_ . Don't make me beg."

The words felt coated in thorns, but Cas rolled out a reluctant, "Yes. Okay. I won't go back for you."

It felt like an utter betrayal of . . . everything.

Dean nodded once, like he was satisfied, but his fingers twitched again.

Cas reached out, hand hovering over Dean's, and he almost did it. He wanted to. He thought, from the way Dean held so still, that it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. That maybe, even, it would be a comfort.

But you didn't pull that shit in the final hour, and you didn't risk something you were losing anyway, and Cas let his palm drop to the gearshaft instead and Dean continued to look out the window and it was like Cas hadn't even moved. 

They reached the cabin. Cas parked around the back, right next to the shed that would star in his nightmares, if he was the type to sleep. As they got out, Dean seemed to decide to make up for the hour or so's worth of silence because he started in on the same goodbyes, the watch-out-for-this and take-care-of-that that Cas had heard a dozen times before.

Cas leaned on the hood of the Impala, and just listened. He let Dean hand over his favorite gun, recite the instructions to reconnect the streaming box to the TV if it ever crapped out, pass on his favorite chili recipe, do what he had to do. That was Cas's job, in this team—letting Dean be and do what no one else could.

"And Sam, man, I know he's all responsible and shit but you gotta keep an eye on him. Oughta go without saying, but just in case." Dean put his hand on Cas's shoulder and squeezed. "Okay?" 

Truth was, they'd run through this so many times, there shouldn't be any last words left to say. It shouldn't feel like there was still a library's worth of unfinished business between them but what did Cas know? Maybe, if you were letting go of someone you loved, there was  _always_ unfinished business. Maybe you could never be so completely done with someone you cared about.

"Okay." It wasn't. Cas's hands came up of their own accord, hovering by Dean's elbows, itching to clasp him closer. This time, he gave in to the impulse.

Dean slid between Cas's legs like he belonged there.

"You don't have to worry about us, while you're down there," Cas said. "We'll take care of each other."

"You mean you won't sit around, mourning me for the rest of your lives?" Dean's wry tone wasn't quite genuine, but he made the effort. He rested both hands on Cas's shoulders.

"We're going to take turns. There are enough of us, it shouldn't impact our daily lives too much." Cas tried to match Dean's levity, and failed miserably. "I'm sure even Rowena will be happy to shed a few tears on your behalf."

"Don't set your hopes too high." Dean squeezed him again. "It's gonna be a while."

"The rest of forever." Cas slipped one hand around to Dean's back, splaying his fingers across the canvas of his jacket. It was almost a hug. "I should have thought to bring some crossword puzzles."

"Nah, no light." Dean was still trying for glib, and he was pretty much getting there, which was worse than if he'd tried and failed. "Maybe some knitting, instead. Gets chilly, twenty-thousand leagues under the sea."

"Let me know if you encounter a kraken."

"I won't—" Dean's voice rasped, and he stopped to clear his throat. "Pray. I won't do that to you."

This. Man. 

"What about what you're doing to me now?" The retort spilled out of Cas and shattered between them, and he expected Dean to be angry but the reality was worse.

Dean sighed, and dropped his head on Cas's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Cas."

This was unendurable.

Cas slid his arms all the way around Dean, yanking him close, nearly sending them rolling over the hood of the car. Dean's heart thudded against Cas's chest wildly, though he didn't fight for a second.

"I know. I'm sorry. I know."

He kept the steady chant up as Cas tried to find ways to bring Dean closer, clutching at his jacket, tangling their ankles together, knowing only that he had to do  _something_ with this feeling of helplessness. He cupped the back of Dean's head, then dropped his hand to the man's shoulder, then squeezed too tight. He heard Dean's hiss of pain directly in his ear, and it brought him back to his senses enough to put some space between them.

Dean stepped back. "Don't . . . don't make it a thing, okay?" He angled his head away from Cas. "A goodbye thing. Just. I have to do this."

Cas felt the fracture as it happened, in a rare moment of self-awareness. He sensed the part of himself that needed Dean the way he assumed humans needed food and water and air retreat, shrivel up, sulkily declare that since no one was treating it as valid it would just shut its mouth and die since that was apparently what they all wanted. 

And on the other side of Cas, everything that was left—not a whole lot, to be honest—but whatever scrap of the angelic garrison commander he still had in him was what put Dean to bed. He somehow kept his hands steady as he helped Dean remove the lid of the box, and  _didn't_ help him climb inside because the hunter still had his damn pride, and all on his own he began to slide the lid over Dean's prone body while Dean smiled big in a last-ditch effort to pull the wool over Cas's eyes and pretend this wasn't the last damn thing he wanted to be doing.

Cas—metaphorically, but no less painfully—died. 

 

x

 

They didn't hold a hunter's funeral, because Dean wasn't  _dead_ . And that was the hard part, that would always be the hard part. They were in permanent mourning for a man who was still alive and breathing and suffering and there was no end in sight. 

Cas took to finding empty rooms where he could sit and just listen. Maybe Dean would change his mind and pray. Maybe Cas could hear his voice, walk in his dreams, do  _something_ besides this awful, meaningless wait.

Nothing happened. He kept waiting for it.

 

x

 

"You can't be okay with this. None of us are  _okay_ ." Sam was plastered, and Cas had never seen him like that before. Not this bad, anyway. He swayed on his feet, grabbed the kitchen counter for support. Continued, with bleary eyes and no filter. "Dean's fucking  _gone_ and you're walking around like a robot and it's not okay, Jack isn't okay, I'm not okay, nothing's okay so stop fucking tellin' me I'm  _okay_ ."

"What would you have me do?" Cas asked.

Sam, never one for excessive violence, threw a bottle at Cas's head. It shattered on contact, but it didn't hurt.

Nothing much did. 

 

x

 

Mary came back. 

Cas wanted to tell her she'd waited too long, but Sam beat him to it.

"Dean needed you here  _before_ . While he was still--"  _alive_ didn't quite cut it. Sam threw out the sentence in disgust. "You just chose a hell of a time to be a mother again, that's all."

"I'm sorry I don't live up to your expectations," she fired back, in a whirl of fury that was all Dean, and Sam's face darkened.

Cas tried to pull Jack away, but the nephilim wouldn't go. "Dean hates it when you guys fight." He stepped between Sam and Mary, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. "We're all sad that he went away, and I think it was really dumb of him. But yelling isn't going to save him."

Cas watched his son head off the argument before it began and shepherd Sam and Mary to the library for research like he'd been doing it his entire life. Which, technically, he had, but he'd only been alive for a couple years so it didn't carry as much weight.

Mary helped them chase a few leads that turned out to be nothing, like every lead so far had, and Other Bobby threw in a few suggestions but mostly hung around for poor, drunk, and grudgingly given moral support.

Cas heard nothing from Dean. 

Weeks rolled by.

Mary stayed, but by April, Sam had left.

 

x

 

Maggie had assumed control of the Apocalypse World hunters after Sam left, and Cas liked her, really, except for the part where she took up all of Jack's time and thought Cas was a shitty father just because he. Well. Hid in his room a lot.

She stood in his doorway, scowling. She'd come a long way from stammering every time he glanced her way. He missed those days. She didn't yell at him as much. 

"You're an angel." As if he'd forgotten, for a single painful second. "You're supposed to watch out for people. And protect them. And you're just sitting here, doing nothing. I can't even complain you're a drain on resources because you never eat, never shower--" she wrinkled her nose at that, "--never even watch TV. I mean, aren't you  _bored_ ?"

He sighed. He was sitting, cross-legged, on his bed. He'd never used it much before Dean . . . did that horrible thing he did . . . but now, he'd gotten fairly attached to it. He preferred sitting on it to standing in the corner. 

"I'm listening." He felt like he'd explained this before. 

"You should be listening to your kid. Jack might never come down here and say it, but he could use your help." She put her hands on her hips. "He's hunting all by himself."

Cas closed his eyes. "I'm very proud of what Jack has accomplished."

"He's trying to get your attention! And he's being really stupid about it."

She was too loud. Cas waved her away. 

 

x

 

The months had rolled into an entire year when Cas's slow crumbling finally halted and he was forced to put himself back together, and revive part, if not all, of what had died when Dean took the plunge.

First, Sam came back to the bunker with Rowena in tow. Cas shouldn't have been surprised that Sam went to the witch, but he was. As much as anything surprised him these days. They hadn't found a way to put Michael down without also wiping Dean off the face of the Earth, so the box was still the best solution, according to Rowena.

Sam and Cas fought soon after, when Sam asked where Jack was and Cas didn't know. Sam, like Maggie, thought Cas was being a terrible father. Sam, unlike Maggie, knew exactly which buttons to push to piss Cas off.

He said Dean would be ashamed.

Cas knew it was true, so he snapped back twice as viciously.

Second, further exacerbating the situation, Jack called to tell them his lung had been punctured by a ghoul and it had possibly munched on his appendix while it was in the vicinity and, oh, by the way, nephilim flesh did crazy things to ghouls.

So the three of them—Sam, Cas, and Rowena—had to road trip out to Phoenix to save Jack's skin. Literally. It was the first time Cas had emerged from the bunker in months. The brightness of the sun was somewhat offensive. All three of them argued, sometimes all at once. Without Dean there to soothe Sam's ruffled feathers, glare Rowena into submission, and shame Cas into being the better man, it was kind of . . . well, it was a shitshow.

The third and final event to pull Cas out of his funk was seeing Jack lying in a motel bed, trying to hide his sloppily bandaged side as he insisted to Cas that everything was under control.

Sam's jaw was tight enough to crack, and the look he gave Cas was clear:  _fix it, or I break you._

Cas fixed it. Cas spent the next few months trying to fix everything he'd let slide while he was waiting for Dean. A large chunk of him still lingered there, in that limbo space where he clung to the possibility of a prayer, but he at least tried to go through the motions this time. He didn't want to let Sam and Jack down. And looking foolish in front of Rowena wasn't high on his To Do list.

He found ways to be useful around the bunker, and apologized to Maggie, who was extremely gracious while handing him a toilet brush and bottle of bleach. He went on a few more hunts, although he liked being the healer, rather than the fighter. He'd spent centuries as a soldier. The change of pace was nice.

He started doing things like take long walks with Mary and chat about Dean, which he recognized was the kind of thing you did when someone was dead. And Dean wasn't. But, for all their sakes, maybe it was better to act as if he were.

They learned how to knit together, which was an adventure in swearing and dropped stiches and a lot more alcohol than most hobbies, and when they mutually agreed to drop the damn idea and do something fun, Cas remembered Baby.

The Impala had stayed in the garage since Cas parked it there, the day Dean went. It was understood to be Sam's car, but Sam hadn't touched it. Cas couldn't begin to unravel the psychology at play there, unless it was something as simple as Sam preferring the '06 Mustang he'd bought off Jody. 

Maintenancing the car became Cas's job. He enlisted Jack in helping, mostly because he needed someone to Google instructions and read them aloud as he worked and Mary was still iffy on mobile devices. 

In short, Cas started—reluctantly—to move forward. He was almost battle ready by the time the next crisis hit, and putting down the vampire rebellion (it was a whole thing) took up a good chunk of that year. He didn't have time to think much about Dean, or wait for him to make contact, and when it was all over and he and Sam were lying in massive puddles of blood, regretting their life choices and vowing never to return to Des Moines, Iowa, he realized he'd gotten out of the habit of waiting altogether.

He shared this with Sam.

Sam spit out a tooth and said, "About time."

He rolled onto his side to look at Cas, probably only engaging in conversation because neither of them wanted to start cleaning up this massacre. Cas had never killed so many vampires in his life. He'd gladly go the rest of it without killing another of them. Too much beheading.

"Dean never wanted you to wait for him. Dean never wanted either of us to wait for him."

"Bastard."

"Jerk," Sam agreed, and wrung out his hair. "Dibs on the shower."

Cas wrinkled his nose. 

 

x

 

_**Cas?** _

**_Shit. Ignore me. Ignore that._ **

 

Cas sat bolt upright at the words, which skittered down his back like stray ice cubes. He'd been watching a movie with Sam, who paused playback immediately and also straightened.

"What is it?"

Cas gripped the armrests of his easy chair. Maybe it had been nothing. Maybe he'd imagined it. But it seemed unlikely that delusion would kick in  _now_ , when he'd spent so long wishing. And it was so vivid.

He'd heard Dean's voice, caught scent of that lemon-and-pepper tang of his thoughts, felt the steadiness of his mind and hands. Prayer was a hard thing to mock or mimic. Cas waited to see if there was more.

He watched the seconds tick by on the Batman clock Dean had hung in the Cave. He gave it a full minute. When nothing happened, he looked back at Sam, still waiting in his own arm chair with a confused expression.

"I thought—but it's nothing." No sense getting Sam's hopes up. "You can resume the movie, I apologize."

Cas couldn't stop his own hopes from rising, though. It had been Dean. He was sure of it. 

 

x

 

_**Cas? You there?** _

**_Yeah, like you can fucking answer . . ._ **

 

It was late, now. Sam had gone to bed, and Cas had retreated to his own room to sit and keep vigil, like he used to. He was glad he had given it a chance. Dean's voice filtered through his mind with unusual, but expected, hesitance.

Cas hadn't felt so excited since Dean first showed him cartoons. 

He'd given this a lot of thought in the last couple hours. If he concentrated, he could sense the other angels' voices—faint and muted, with there being so few of them and Heaven nearly closed for business, but present. And despite the distance and the box, he could hear Michael.

 

_Perhaps I can._

 

He directed the thought toward Michael, as he would to a fellow angel when giving or receiving revelation. It wasn't a power he'd used often, or recently; direct telepathy was a pain in the ass, primarily, and indicated a personal preference, which in the old days had been suspicious behavior.

 

_**Cas? No way.** _

 

Screw their suspicious behavior. Cas was preferential as hell, and that was his favorite voice in the world.

 

_Hello, Dean._

 

Cas was revived.

 

x

 

Sam was the first one to guess something was up, although in fairness, Cas didn't try too hard to hide the fact. He walked around with a dopey smile on his face most of that first day, and given that his primary expression had been a scowl up until that point, it didn't take a genius.

"You're . . . talking to him?" Sam's face contorted in confusion. "How does that work? Why didn't you before?"

"It's just angel radio," Cas said, "but on steroids, sort of. And I didn't try it before because I wasn't sure my thoughts would penetrate the box's warding. It seemed unlikely." Not that something being unlikely had ever stopped them before, but Cas found this answer easier to give than the intricate net of promises and emotions that had truly kept him from reaching out.

"Wow." Sam sounded floored, although Cas was sure they'd encountered far stranger circumstances. "Tell him I say hi, I guess. How is it down there?"

"We don't talk about it." Cold. Salty. No air, but the damp sunk through to Dean's bones despite the barrier of spelled wood. Michael was loud, constantly, and Dean never slept, never got a break, and never stopped fighting. "I imagine it's unpleasant."

Sam, being Sam, tried to analyze the hell out of it. He insisted on trying a couple things, testing Cas's "signal strength", enlisting Rowena to cast a couple spells that Cas failed to see the purpose of. He knew Sam was looking for ways that this connection would screw them over, and he appreciated it, but all he wanted was to talk to Dean.

So sue him, it was actually kind of nice. He didn't sleep, Dean  _ couldn't _ sleep, and for once it felt like they had all the time in the world.

He'd never talked this much to Dean before. They'd always been interrupted by something—a case, a crisis, Dean's infernal need to eat and rest, Sam, Jack, Mary, Heaven, Hell, Crowley . . . in short, everything under the sun. Their relationship was a series of truncated conversations strung together over the course of eight long years, not one of them coming to a concrete conclusion until now.

He circled around the idea, slowly, that this was a prime opportunity to take care of some of that unfinished business. Dean was skittish about talking on a good day, but with him trapped . . . Cas knew he was taking advantage of the situation, but he couldn't help it. The pull of those eight years was too strong.

He started small. 

_ Can I ask you something? _

 

_**Not like I'm going anywhere.** _

 

Cas scowled at the ceiling of his bedroom, but he had to admit he missed Dean's humor. Slightly.

 

_ Do you ever think about them? Lisa and Ben? _

 

There was a long moment, and Cas was irrationally afraid that they'd lost touch—that he'd already expended the time he'd get with Dean.

 

_**Every day.** _

 

x

 

_ I'm sorry I hit you three years ago. _

 

_**Random.** _

 

_ I just wanted you to know, that's all. I wasn't angry because I thought you were a bad person. I was angry because I was scared you'd make me kill you after all. That the Mark of Cain would damn both of us. _

 

_**I forgive you, man. That's ancient history.** _

 

x

 

_ You sent me away. _

 

_**Context, Cas.** _

 

_ When you let that angel into Sam's body. You sent me away when I needed you most and you never apologized.  _

 

_**Because I'm not sorry. I'd do it again.** _

 

_ Why is it I'm always apologizing to you and not the other way around? _

 

_**Are you tryna to start a fight?** _

 

_ No. _

Cas drummed his fingers on the bunker table, nose all but buried in the cup of coffee before him. It reminded him so badly of Dean, he could almost pretend the man was here.

 

_ Just trying to understand you. _

 

x

 

_**Truth or Dare.** _

 

_ What? _

 

_**I want to play. Truth or Dare?** _

 

_ Truth. _

 

_**Does it bother you that I don't apologize for shit?** _

 

_ I think I'll take Dare. _

 

_**Too late. C'mon.** _

 

_ Fine. It bothers me. _

 

_**Why didn't you ever tell me?** _

There was a distinctly accusatory note to Dean's mental tone. Cas sighed.

 

_ It's my turn, you only get one. And you have to pick Truth because I can't dare you to do anything. _

 

_**You could. You could dare me to say something crazy.** _

 

_ Have it your way. I dare you to tell me the truth. _

 

_**Lame.** _

 

_ I'm lame. Tell me why you don't apologize. _

 

_**Seriously?** _

 

_**Cas?** _

 

_**Look, it's because I know you'll forgive me. I know I could burn the whole world down and you'd be there, telling me it's not my fault, the matches were defective. And I don't. I don't want that.** _

 

_ Why? _

 

_**Because it's going to hurt more when I finally screw up so badly, even you turn your back. Are you happy, you sadistic fuck?** _

 

x

 

_ Truth or Dare-to-tell-Truth. _

 

_**Changed my mind. I don't like this game.** _

 

_ It's my turn anyway. I'll take Truth. _

 

_**You're obsessed.** _

 

x

 

It was two agonizing hours before Dean caved. Cas was twitchy the entire time, snappish with Jack, impatient with the lore he was pretending to read. It wasn't fair for Dean to ignore him. It wasn't right that they had to fight just because Dean hated the feelings-word. 

 

_**Okay, hotshot.** _

 

Dean's voice finally broke through the monotony, and Cas gladly abandoned the book he wasn't reading anyway.

 

_**Why'd you leave me alone after Sam jumped in the pit?** _

 

Cas wasn't expecting that one. He guessed Dean was trying to give him a taste of his own medicine.

He had to cast his mind back to those years, to remember the confusing blend of pride and uncertainty. He'd been caught up in Heaven's politics, because that sort of thing had still been important to him. What an idiot. And then, by the time he'd come around to realizing he missed Dean, the hunter had already retired.

But that had been because of a promise between Dean and Sam. It had nothing to do with Cas.

Cas envisioned a similar scenario taking place in the present, and realized his error. He knew more about Dean now than he had then; he knew Dean always tried to make everybody else happy before himself. That he was near deathly allergic to prioritizing his needs, and wants?

Hunters didn't have wants.

 

_ I was afraid. I wasn't used to interacting with humans, and I second-guessed my every judgment. It was easier to tell myself you wanted to be left in peace than consider the possibility you might want me around.  _

 

He wondered if it was too much truth, but after a beat Dean started to quiz him about yesterday afternoon's episode of  _ Dr. Sexy, M.D,  _ and Cas was happy to bring him up to speed. Baby steps. They were getting somewhere.

It was awful that Dean had to be under miles of water and semi-possessed by an archangel to tell the truth, but there they were.

 

x

 

_**How's Sam?** _

 

_ Funny you ask. He's begun behaving strangely. _

 

_**I had a feeling.** _

 

_ How? _

 

_**I dunno. Just a feeling. I ever tell you about the time he snuck out of the motel while Dad and I were on a hunt?** _

 

_ No. _

 

_**Well, he snuck out of the motel while Dad and I were on a hunt.** _

 

_ Fascinating. _

 

_**Hold on, smartass, I'm not done. We were three hours out, about to stomp this ghoul's den, and I said to Dad, I have to go home I'm really sick. He didn't believe me 'til I threw up on the side of the road. He was pissed, but he turned 'round and the second we crossed back into town, I felt better.** _

 

_ I'm sure that improved John's mood greatly. _

 

_**You know it. I thought he'd flog my ass then and there. But we get back to the room and Sammy's gone, and Dad flips. We had to drag Sam out of this bar, with strange men . . . well, anyway, it was one of those nick-of-time deals. If we'd gone through with the ghoul hunt, there wouldn't have been a Sammy to go back to. Makes me sick to remember even now.** _

 

_ Frightening. Perhaps you're psychic. _

 

_**Nah, I just know how Sam thinks. It's about time he gets antsy, starts looking for ways to get me out of here.** _

 

_ Do you want out? _

 

_**Don't ask me shit like that, Cas. You know the answer.** _

 

x

 

"Billie said the only ending that didn't result in Michael taking over the world was Dean going in the coffin." Sam had adopted Cas's term with a strange, perverse level of glee.

"Okay." Cas was still holding a conversation with Dean in the back of his head. He knew it was rude. He didn't care.

"She never said he wouldn't come  _ out _ ."

Ten points for Dean.

 

x

 

_**He can try. But nothing's changed, has it?** _

 

_ No. _

Cas hated to admit it.

_ Nothing's changed. _

 

x

 

_**Can you do me a favor?** _

 

_ Of course. _

 

_**How long have I been here? I tried to keep track but, I mean. It's impossible. And Michael's no help, he keeps screwing with my head. Tries to convince me everyone I know is already dead and the end of times is nigh and . . . well, you can imagine.** _

 

_ The end of times is nowhere near nigh. It's been a year and a half, Dean.  _

 

_**Oh. Wow.** _

 

_ Longer than you thought? _

 

_**Much. Guess I held out for a while, not talking to you. Messed with my head in its own right.** _

 

_ Please don't do it again. _

 

_**Honestly? Don't think I could.** _

 

x

 

_ Truth or Dare? _

 

_**This again?** _

 

_ You started it. _

 

_**Fine. You know the answer.** _

 

_ Tell me one thing you would never have the courage to say to my face. _

 

_**Cas, gimme a break.** _

 

_ What? You're of the opinion you'll never see me again anyway. _

 

_**You aren't?** _

 

_ You're trying to change the subject. _

 

x

 

Cas was scrubbing crusted food off Jack's favorite plate (somehow, Cas wound up on dish-washing duty even though he rarely ate), up to his elbows in soapy water. 

He'd discarded his coat, suit jacket, and dress shirt on one of the barstools and was feeling distinctly human, but not in a good way. More in a soggy-crumbs-under-my-fingernails-yuck way.

 

_**I can't tell you.** _

 

It had been twenty minutes since their last chat, and Cas had figured Dean would change the subject when he felt up to talking again. It was just a childish game, after all, nothing serious . . . even if both of them had a tendency to treat every conversation like a game of Russian Roulette with truth as their bullet.

 

_ That's why I asked. I want to know it, the thing you can't tell me. _

 

_**Well, I can't. That's why it's a thing I can't tell you. If it were that easy, I would have just been out with it already but it's not.** _

 

_ What's the worst that could happen? _

 

_**Don't give me that shit. I don't need a reason to not tell you, my not wanting to tell you is my reason and you don't get to question it. You don't get to make me feel stupid just because you don't think it's that bad and I do.** _

 

_ Okay. _

 

Cas rinsed the plate slowly, and drained the sink.

 

_ I'll take the dare for you, then. That's allowed. There are a lot of things I've hesitated to tell to your face, but the worst is this.  _

 

He put the plate out to dry and wiped his hands on a towel. It wasn't an easy thing, what he'd asked, but he was determined to stick it through.

 

_ The reason I never told you that it bothered me, the not-apologizing? It's because then it's your fault, whatever happened. You're the asshole who didn't say sorry. You're the one in the wrong, and then I can be the one who forgives. I can be the good one, I can fool you into thinking I'm good and gracious and stay by your side even when you don't say you're sorry. _

He took a breath he didn't really need. 

 

_ And then, as long as I'm good, you'll never stop wanting me. _

 

x

 

In the end, it wasn't Sam who figured a way out. It was Jack who went to talk with Billie, who confronted her about her meddling and figured out she'd only shown Dean part of the book. She wasn't happy with them, but then, when was she ever?

She wanted Dean in that coffin for the rest of eternity because it was easier for her that way, and he low-key deserved it for messing with the universe. Her idea of justice. But the coffin wasn't how Dean died or, in that case, didn't die. 

It seemed bizarrely, ridiculously simple when Jack drew some of Garth's blood, still laden with Michael's dormant grace, and used it to power up, to teleport Dean's coffin from the bottom of the ocean to the middle of their control table, still dripping wet and plastered with seaweed. 

Jack burned the archangel out of Dean's body like it was nothing. 

And Cas was left wondering why nobody thought to do this sooner.

 

x

 

Cas wasn't sure he was welcome.

Dean had gone through the reunions with Jack and Sam and Mary like he'd gone through his goodbyes, all those months ago. He'd agreed it had looked pretty bad for a while, and he'd cracked open a beer and admitted to total exhaustion, but otherwise he seemed okay. Far more okay than Cas would have thought someone locked up with Michael for nearly two years would be.

Dean grinned when Jack asked if he was alright, and dragged the kid into a one-armed bear hug.

"Of course I am! Yesterday, I thought I'd be stuck in that clamshell forever. Today, I'm topside again." He toasted the box, still sitting on their control table, and tipped back the beer bottle. "And there's beer. Tomorrow, we're going for burgers. And then we're going to  _ hunt _ . I need to spread my damn wings."

Jack looked a little alarmed, like he thought Dean had retained some angelic attributes, but Sam had laughed—picking up on his older brother's mood—and taken over Jack Duty while Dean retreated to his bedroom for some well-earned rest.

Dean hadn't looked at Cas once before that, but his eyes skittered to the corner before he left, and met Cas's gaze squarely.

_ Not in front of the kids. _

So now Cas lingered in front of Dean's bedroom door, wondering if he should knock, if he'd given the hunter long enough to sleep, if he should just turn around now and pretend nothing had happened while Dean was gone.

But they'd talked, really talked, none of this goes-without-saying shit they'd perfected over the years and as much as Cas had assumed he'd known Dean, there was still so much he didn't understand. 

The door creaked open, and Dean eyed him. "You gonna lurk out there forever?"

"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

Dean snorted, and stepped back to let him in. "It's a bit late for that, buddy."

So Cas stepped inside, closing the door behind him and glancing around Dean's room, which hadn't changed since the last time Cas had been there. Not surprising. Thanks to the Men of Letters' superior underground ventilation system, it didn't even smell musty.

The bedcovers were rumpled, indicating Dean had slept at some point, but his eyes were clear and his hair was combed, so Cas probably hadn't woken him. He still looked tired.

Dean motioned for him to sit on the bed. Cas sank down, waiting for the lecture, the argument, the slew of words that would make him regret how he'd pried into Dean's personal life while Dean was vulnerable.

Dean took up the chair by the bed, rested his elbows on his knees, and said, "Truth or Dare."

"What?" Cas had heard. He just didn't quite believe.

Dean's ears went red. "Truth or Dare," he repeated. "We never finished the game. It was your turn."

"We played for two months, Dean. When does it end?"

Rather than answer the question, Dean looked at him expectantly.

Cas sighed. "Truth. But you forfeited to me, so you have to tell it."

"I know." Dean laced his fingers together. "So. Last truth, Cas. Hit me." He raised his eyebrows like he was trying to convey a silent message to Cas, but with Michael gone, there was no two-way communication between them any more and prayer didn't work when you were in the same room as an angel. 

Cas leaned forward. This was ridiculous, but at the same time. He thought Dean might be trying to reach out in his own way, in a manner he was more comfortable with than outright chatting. Because Dean had to get drunk and desperate to talk about his feelings, and right now he was neither.

And some things couldn't just go unsaid, not really. If Cas had learned anything from this little episode, it was that.

"What's the one thing you want to say, more than anything, to my face?" he asked softly.

The edge of Dean's mouth quirked up in a smile. "Don't go anywhere, Cas. Doesn't matter if you're good or bad or ugly or listen to Billy Joel."

"You mean the gold standard of quality music?" 

Dean flipped him the bird. "I'm trying to say I always want you, Cas. You don't have to worry."

"I didn't." Cas looked away. 

"You, uh. You know the other thing, right?" Dean's voice tensed, and Cas glanced back at him immediately.

He offered his hand, and this time he didn't pull it back halfway. He waited to see if Dean would take it, and he didn't worry about what might happen if he didn't. 

"Of course I do," he assured his best friend. "It goes without saying." 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm new here.  
> Thanks if you read 'til the end!


End file.
